Fall
by TheAgonyofBlank
Summary: Years later, Fleur and Hermione meet again. Fleur/Hermione. Oneshot. Femslash.


Title: Fall  
Fandom: _Harry Potter._  
Pairing: Fleur/Hermione.  
Prompt: Fleur/Hermione, lyrics from my favourite song ('loved you all the way; I'd pick the fool any day')  
Rating: Light R.  
Words: 675  
Disclaimer/Author's Note: The characters belong to J.K. Rowling and Scholastic. This was written for International Day of Femslash, for demoka, who has asked time and time again for a Fleur/Hermione – but I was too much of a butt to deliver. Thank you for being so patient, I know it's short, but I hope you like it. is nervous

* * *

It had started off easily enough.

(It always started off easily enough, Hermione couldn't help but muse to herself.)

They were brought together because of their love for their husbands; it had, indeed, been Ron's idea that Hermione go for tea with Fleur. She was sure Bill had pushed Fleur to do the same. And she had only agreed because Ron had looked so bloody hopeful, and she didn't want to see him upset, even though he would never say he was.

When they had that first meeting, Hermione couldn't tell who was more displeased with the situation: Fleur, or herself. The blonde had taken a seat at the table rather stiffly, and when their eyes met there was no friendliness to be found in blue orbs. Hermione made sure the same was reflected in her own. Small talk was made; polite chatter that she knew with a sinking feeling was reserved for those she didn't like.

It was so easy to hate the French witch, with her beauty and charm and grace, and Hermione didn't want to stop. It had been so easy, ever since her fourth year.

It wasn't nearly as easy to forget Fleur's hands on her hips, her soft lips kissing her worries away. Or to forget that noise Fleur made whenever she sucked on the flesh right at the point where her neck and shoulder met.

It wasn't easy to forget lust, and even harder to forget love.

But they had been young, then. Young and foolish, and it was only years later, long after Rose was born, that Hermione realized that what she had mistaken as just lust had, in fact, more than a fair share of love mixed into it.

By then, it was far too late.

Fleur had Bill, and Hermione had Ron.

It was so easy – like breathing – to fall back on her fourth year mantra; her dislike was because Fleur was so bloody airy and stuck-up, even after all these years. And it was so easy to hold on to this feeling, to be bitter because Fleur had gotten married first, and where did that leave them?

That one date at tea place was more than enough for Hermione and all the memories it dredged up, but Ron was so pleased that he suggested she do it again, and so that one date turned into a second, a third, and then she finally lost count – and somewhere in the middle of this whole mess, she and Fleur became _friends_.

Not much longer, and they were becoming friends _with benefits_.

It was all a little mind-boggling, and Hermione didn't much like to think about it. Bill was often gone, Ron not; so Hermione often found herself tangled in the sheets of the master bed in the Weasley-Delacour household, Fleur's damp hand lightly, lazily stroking her back, her own sticky fingers gently brushing Fleur's face.

It often reminded her of her fourth year, when they used to do this in the broom cupboard or even under the bleachers (though they had never gotten as far as they now had).

There was a calm after they were done, a sort of silence that made Hermione feel as though they were the only ones to exist at that very moment, and it was clichéd, but it was true: she'd never felt this way with anyone else.

She'd never wanted anyone else, not like this.

Already she could hear the warning signs going off in her mind, telling her this newfound affection she had for Fleur was dangerous.

(But was it really new, when she had loved her all along?)

It was déjà vu all over again.

And she wanted to stop; she wanted to end this cycle.

But it was far too easy to fall back into the cycle, the familiar pace of love and lust and love again.

It was foolish, she knew, and it would only end badly.

(Because what other way was there for it to end?)

For once she didn't care.

She let herself fall.


End file.
